


too much and just enough

by marveling_under_an_open_sky



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, John Watson is a Good Friend, Lestrade as well, Mental Health Issues, Molly is briefly mentioned, Mycroft...something more than briefly, Sensory Overload
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 11:37:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18940144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marveling_under_an_open_sky/pseuds/marveling_under_an_open_sky
Summary: Sherlock’s gotten better at handling the Tube over the years. His mind palace has only grown ever more sophisticated, and it’s as much a refuge as a tool.---Yes, he's gotten better. But Sherlock is not as invulnerable as he would like others to believe.





	too much and just enough

**Author's Note:**

> Like the tag says, this story has a trigger warning for a pretty graphic description of a sensory overload (at least how I’ve experienced them). You know you best, so please please take care of yourself, okay? Be safe <3

Sherlock’s gotten better at handling the Tube over the years. His mind palace has only grown ever more sophisticated, and it’s as much a refuge as a tool. Redbeard soothes him best, but others creep in from time to time. Sometimes Molly is there with coffee and her pinched face. Lestrade ( _George? Garrett?_ ) might show up, holding a packet of cigarettes more often than not.

(Whenever Mycroft appears, Sherlock summarily forces him out. He will not put himself at his brother’s mercy.)

Today, there is no case to drag him into the sea of people scurrying to their destinations like so many brainless lemmings. The more mind-consuming the case, the more bearable the Tube - but no client has approached him. So why is he here? John stands next to him as they wait for the next train; how did he talk Sherlock into submerging himself into London’s depths? The convincing must’ve been so thoroughly tedious that Sherlock automatically disposed of it.

People whirl around Sherlock, bits of their lives eddying and churning - a hint of lemongrass here (Vietnamese restaurant owner with three children), a smear of paint (insomniac home renovator whose lawn was in desperate need of trimming), a particular walk (avid biker who spoke faltering Cantonese) -

_Stop._

Their stories drag at his edges, sing to him in a splintering pitch. Sherlock sinks his feet into the ground. _I am stronger than they are._

And then the train glides into the station. Doors open, and a tide of humanity sweeps toward him.

The noise - oh, the _noise_ crashes over him and over him and over him, the feet and the rattle and the chatter. Movement vaults before his eyes - too much of - _cleaning fluid and psoriasis and and and_ \- and the stories break free.

Sherlock lets out a soft moan. He claps his hands over his ears, slams his eyes shut -

_\- stop stop stop get me out of here I can’t -_

“Sherlock?”

_\- your voice is too loud, don’t -_

“Sherlock!”

John’s hand lands on his shoulder, asking something, voice melting into the babble. Sherlock hisses, _ssshhhh_ , though he can’t be sure if John will hear it, let alone understand.

Two cool palms come to rest on the backs of Sherlock’s fingers, another barrier against the relentless noise. Shock shivers through Sherlock; he hadn’t suspected John would have the wits to realize his needs.

(And if his flatmate’s actions remind Sherlock of Mycroft, no one knows that but him.)

Sherlock doesn’t know how long he’s there, bodiless, as the frantic sensations ebb. The rational world emerges from the tumult. But he only allows himself a moment of respite - a concession to weakness he cannot afford - before straightening up like the crack of a whip.

John is looking at him.

Sherlock snaps his collar up. “We’ve missed the train.”

He doesn’t even have to glance at John to see the exasperation surge over his friend’s face. “That’s all you can say? ‘We’ve missed the train’?” John spits a curse that would make Mrs. Hudson cringe. “You can’t” - he gestures with his hands, his shoulders, a violent motion of disbelief - “ _brush_ it off like that!”

Sherlock turns on him, then, expression bramble thorns. “You have no idea what I can and can’t do,” he snarls.

“I swear, Sherlock, I’ll- ”

But Sherlock doesn’t wait to hear what John will do. He spins on his heel and bounds up the escalator, knocking into human after insignificant human.

(He does _not_ flee.)

He bursts out onto the street. There, he hails a taxi and slithers into it before John could so much as mount the escalator. 

\----

“I don’t understand him, Mrs. H.”

Mrs. Hudson tops off John’s tea cup. “No one does, dear. He’s lived here for ages and I still don’t know why he thinks toenails belong in my fridge.”

John releases an unwilling snort of laughter. “Right. Does he have those overloads often, then?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I expect they happen often enough. All those things he notices. They’d drive me mad.”

John ponders this. “I s’pose he thinks he’s above all this.” He gives a sort of helpless shrug. “Mental health.”

“I don’t doubt it, dear.” Mrs. Hudson shakes her head. “That’s just the way Sherlock is.”

“That’s putting it mildly.” John starts to rise from his chair, then leans back in it, brow furrowing. A minute later, he stands up with surety. “I’ll be back in a bit, Mrs. H.”

“Where’re you going?”

“Just a spot of shopping.” He smiles at her, and departs. Mrs. Hudson has lived with her boys too long to speculate much about it.

\----

A half hour later, John returns. He places his purchase on the arm of Sherlock’s now-occupied chair. Apparently absorbed in the wallpaper, Sherlock doesn’t even twitch.

Twenty-three minutes afterward, his voice splits the flat’s silence. “John, why is this here?” He brandishes the small plastic packet at John, who’s sitting at the kitchen table with a newspaper. John looks up, face bland.

“Oh, you know. If you ever need them.” He shrugs, as if to say it’s none of his business, and turns a page. Sherlock gives an explosive snort and hurls the packet into the chair, then stalks to his room. John can’t make out his words, but it doesn’t take a high-functioning sociopath to deduce their meaning.

When John sets down his newspaper, the packet is gone. A quick search of the bins proves that Sherlock has not merely tossed it.

John smiles to himself. He hopes his friend will find a pair of earplugs useful.

Maybe he should have gotten the pink ones instead.

**Author's Note:**

> Whew. This was immensely...releasing to write. Definitely cathartic. This is why I love fiction and fanfiction - you get to bring yourself into it, you know? I'm so glad I wrote this. Constructive criticism is always very welcome!
> 
> There's kind of a nod at Autistic Sherlock Holmes in this. I'm not on the spectrum and I don't know quite enough about the community (I'm terrified of misrepresentation) to claim that tag for this. 
> 
> Personally, having someone cover my ears as John does in this is helpful, but for some people it might only make it worse. Be careful. I also bring earplugs with me often and I've told several close friends what works for me. I recommend that :)
> 
> To close up, here's a quote:  
> "Gmorning, stunner. / Breathe. / Another breath. / Breathe. / Make some space between yourself and whatever is weighing on you. / It's nothing you can't handle, but make some space. / Breathe. / You got this. / Psssh, you SUPER got this. / Breathe. Let's go.  
> \- Lin-Manuel Miranda, April 8th, 2019
> 
> Another thing I've been told by a reliable source: Don't think yourself into having a sensory overload. Don't tell yourself, "Oh my gosh, there's a lot of stuff I'm going to be overwhelmed." Cheesy as it might sound, think positive. You aren't invincible, but you are strong. We're proud of you.


End file.
